


Landfall

by Dee218



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, i honestly dont know how i feel about this?, let's blame Elle, oh boy what did i do, trigger warning for injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 05:57:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5616238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dee218/pseuds/Dee218
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was inspired by the spoilers for season 3, and from the idea that Flint probably has nightmares. Takes place after season 2 finale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Landfall

The first time John hears the sounds of a nightmare coming from across the dark cabin he’d been slipping between the states of feverish unconsciousness for the better part of the night. The burning, ever present ache in his left leg had been spreading its tentacles to his hip, digging and clawing and tearing, chasing away any real chance he had for a few hours of mind-numbing sleep. When he hears the muffled scream he isn’t all that certain it wasn’t him who let it escape. 

The captain’s cabin is a relatively large space, or at least large for a person who is used to sharing his living quarters with 70 or so other men, but the sounds carry far better than they would if they were distorted by a chorus of snoring pirates. So John lies there, on the window sill, and listens to his captain twist and turn, and tries not to count the number of frantic cries that sound so wrong coming out of him.

John has never considered himself either a particularly good or a particularly bad a man – he isn’t drawn to violence like some are, but if an opportunity strikes, he more often than not makes the choice that furthers his chances of survival, be that whatever may _(do not think about the leg, do not think about the crew, do not think about the pain, do not --)_ , but the realization that someone else is in pain as well makes him feel a tiny bit better.

That is until it he thinks he hears Miranda’s name and his throat closes a little.

So John sits up with a loud groan, making sure that his blanket makes as much noise as possible, and reaches for the water pitcher. It’s absurd really, how loud one can be while pouring a drink if one wants to be – clatter the mug, mutter, let the water splash, curse under your breath, more clatter.

The frantic noises from the hammock stop when John is half way through gulping the water down. 

“Do you need something?” he hears from the other side of the darkness. Flint sounds distant and bit incoherent, but John is willing to take that over sheer terror any day. 

He clears his throat and puts the mug down, gentler this time despite the way his hands shake. “No, just --” he tries to search his brain for a reply that doesn’t reveal too much, doesn’t make him sound needy, but he feels feverish and the pain is making everything so _fucking hard_. “Thirsty,” he finally finishes and sinks back into his make-shift bed, hands rubbing the tense muscles of his left thigh. 

“You sure?” John thinks he can hear the sound of Flint’s eyebrows coming together, can picture the look on his face based on just two words and a tone so clearly that it makes his face twist in a borderline hysterical grin. When did they become these people, when did they construct this strange form of coexistence where too much is revealed in a single sentence? 

So he just tells Flint to go back to sleep, he’s fine, no really, he doesn’t need any help, no, the fever is going down, yeah. 

He’s fine, everything is fucking perfect. 

He’s stuck on a ship with a captain that is clearly losing it, with a crew that _needs_ him, and he has never felt as useless. 

It’s all fine – the pain isn’t making him want to chop off what’s left of his worthless leg, the fever isn’t turning his brain to a mush, and he most certainly didn’t just feel the urge to crawl next to a man that still remains a fucking mystery to him. Everything is just fucking _perfect_.

\---------

It becomes their nightly routine – Flint dreams and John dozes off and sleeps for a few hours, only to be woken by either sensations of suffocating, or the sounds of suffocating that echo through the cabin like tendrils of his own delirious sleep.

The night is in drastic contrast with the day; when the sun is up John can almost pretend like they can see this through. Flint’s plan to make England terrified of them works well for John; he has noticed that anger goes well with pain, and anger suits him just fine. Though he's a bit uncertain if it suits Flint as well, or if it is just guiding him go through the motions, like a sorceress animating a dead corpse. 

One day he finds Flint standing by the rail of the ship, clipping off his hair and letting the wind catch it. John is pretty sure he meant it to be transformative. Maybe he even believes it is, wouldn’t surprise him one bit. 

His leg is somewhat better now, though he still can’t use the prosthesis Dr. Howell made for him. No prosthesis translated into sleeping in the captain’s cabin – he wasn’t going to let anyone haul him around like he did with Randall, fuck that. He might be stuck with the crew and the crew with him, but there were limits to what he was willing to take if there were other options. And his bed on the window sill is way better than any fucking hammock _(those are the only reasons_ , he keeps telling himself).

The first time John drags himself by Flint’s hammock to wake him up was no different than any other night, but in hindsight he should have known better. 

John wakes up to a sound that cuts its way through the pain colored haze he calls sleep these days. He tries the water trick, clears his throat, mumbles as if dreaming, but Flint is too deep in the unconsciousness to be roused. 

So he gets his crutches and walks over, making sure Flint can’t mistake him as someone sneaking up on him. Which isn’t all that hard considering how the sea makes the deck under him sway and rock, and he isn’t exactly mastering this yet. 

It shouldn’t have surprised him, _seeing_ the nightmare written all across his captain’s face, but it does. It’s a different thing to hear, to imagine, than to actually see; to see the sheen of sweat covering his face and chest, to see the tension distorting his features, to see his forehead crinkled like he’s in intolerable pain, eyes shut like they fight to keep the reality out, or the dream as a reality. 

So John does the first thing that pops into his weary mind and places his hand on Flint’s shoulder, gliding it over his bicep, over his forearm and back up, making sure his touch stays constant and assuring, firm yet delicate. Something that cuts through sleep and tethers.

He isn’t sure if that’s something his mother used to do when he still had one, or if it’s just something that feels natural. What he does know is that Flint’s breathing steadies and that strain on his jaw eases a bit, and that the muscles under his hand feel looser, maybe even relaxed.

And that it makes the knot in his throat unravel a bit.

He misses the confused eyes that follow him to his place by the window.

\---------

The first time Flint kisses him surprises John more than one would have thought, considering they have spent the last few months watching each other, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It was a different thing to allow the masks to crack when the darkness hid it, but neither of them were ready to let that happen when the sun – and the guards – were back up. 

What makes sense though is that it happens in a middle of a fight – it feels like they are always fighting these days – fighting England, fighting dreams, fighting each other. 

There’s a storm, captain making bad decisions, captain ignoring his quartermaster, captain being _a dick_ , and everything just spills over. It’s like John is a vessel that takes and takes, lets it all pile up and come heavy and dense till the pressure becomes too much and it breaks, and everything just floods over. The pain, the helplessness, the inability to make any sense of _anything_.

So John blames Flint of being suicidal, hits where he knows it hurts. He might not know what torments him, but in a sense he still _knows_. Knows that whatever it is, he blames himself for it, that he can’t live with it, that he can pretend he’s just angry when he’s awake, but the truth slips through the cracks like water filling a sinking ship ( _or flooding off of a breaking vessel_ ) while he’s asleep and his ghosts are out for John to see. 

These are things John _fucking knows_ , and by the shaken look on Flint’s face he knows them as well. He expects to be punched; he expects to be thrown off the ship, choked to death, but he most certainly doesn’t expect being kissed. 

The punch he’s waiting for turns into a hand resting against his chest, to fingers lingering against his. He’s sure he sees Flint’s lips move like he’s saying something _(asking something?)_ , but can’t for the death of him concentrate to the actual words, not when Flint is this close and his body isn’t rigid with nightmares, or ready to fight and destroy, and those eyes are watching him with something close to an understanding. 

Or maybe it was John who kissed him first; he really can’t be certain. The only thing that seems to matter is that there’s a hand on his neck, a hand guiding his hand so that it wraps around Flint’s waist, and that the body against his feels like the first solid thing he has touched in ages. 

And that the lips against his feel hot and dry, whereas the tongue finding its way into his mouth is slick and fast, maddeningly captivating, and that he can’t resist any of it. 

It’s nothing like the sea, nothing like pain, nothing like tormenting dreams, and John clings to it and holds on with all he’s got. 

He’s pretty sure his back hits the hull of the ship at some point, but it might just as well been anything else. He can only concentrate to the way Flint’s hands are keeping him steady as he struggles to stand, grasping and searching, and to the way Flint’s mouth travels down his throat, hot and demanding, leaving him to shiver. 

John lets his hands trail their way across Flint’s forearms, across his biceps and over his shoulders, sinks his fingers to the flesh there and brings Flint’s body as close to him as their clothes make it possible. He lets his mouth find its way to that spot on Flint’s jaw that always tenses when he tries to contain himself, and rakes his teeth across it. 

They fuck when the sun is still up, and John isn’t sure what that means. 

But when John’s leg heals up enough to accommodate the prosthesis, no-one expects him to move from the cabin anymore. 

\-------- 

They are sleeping in an actual bed when it happens; James tenses and John’s hand goes to the small of his back without a thought, drawing lazy, familiar circles as he starts to sink back to sleep. 

That is before he hears James’ sleep laced voice call him Thomas. It hits him like a well-balanced punch straight to the gut, emptying his lungs and making him dizzy. 

Just like that it’s him that is rigid, and he feels like he can’t get out of the bed fast enough _(how did you let this happen, you fucking know better)_. 

James finds him on the porch, and the sight of him makes John’s insides ache. 

“What’s going on?” The question is almost wary, and John ponders for a short moment whether it would hurt James more if he lied or told him the truth. 

So he tells him the truth. 

"You just called me Thomas.” He watches James’ face fall and immediately regrets his choice. He has to know though, so he pushes on: “Who is he?” 

James takes a step backwards and John feels like shit. _Fuck._

James’ face twists into something between a smile and a grimace and John guesses the answer before the syllables leave his mouth. _Dead._

He stays outside for a few moments, gathering whatever is left of his exterior and follows James back to the bed. He’s surprised when he allows him back in, and even more surprised when he finds James staring at the ceiling, rather than the wall next to his side of the bed. 

John apologizes the only way that seems fitting – he touches James’ forearm, lets his fingers travel over his bicep and over his shoulder till they reach his cheek. With a light pressure he coaxes James to turn his head, and kisses him. 

He mumbles something about being an idiot against James’ taut lips, and hopes that it’s enough. 

It doesn’t feel like enough, but there are arms around him and mouth meeting his, and he’ll take whatever he can. 

Later when John has James spread under him he watches the emotions flick across his features as he buries his cock deep within him. 

He takes notice how James quivers when he patiently works him open, how his hands clutch the sheets as John’s fingers curve against that particular spot. He takes James’ cock into his mouth and sucks the flushed tip as his fingers move relentlessly, bringing James as close to the edge as possible without actually giving him the release. 

He makes sure James knows it is John that is fucking him, makes sure it’s impossible for him to think otherwise. 

Maybe it’s petty of him, to be jealous, but it’s not like he has any say in the matter. 

John fucks James with a deep, steady rhythm, slowly withdrawing as far as possible before thrusting back in. He takes his time, kissing the skin on the crook of James’ neck, soft lips and wet tongue _(I love you)_. He pins James’ hands above his head and bites the flesh under his teeth _(but you aren’t mine)_ , and settles on a punishing pace that has James falling to pieces under him. 

John loves to hear James beg; it almost makes him believe that he isn’t alone in feeling what he feels. 

\-------- 

Sometimes he thinks he catches a look from James, and hopes it might be a promise. 

Like John might have whatever is left. 


End file.
